Peon
by Forever Jake
Summary: The beginning of an epic tale... sort of.
1. The Valley of Trials

"Peon" by Forever Jake

Chapter One – The Valley of Trials

It was late in the afternoon when Deglash returned from the mine, the worn linen sack slung over his shoulder, full to bursting with another day's load of hard-mined silver, the harsh Durotar sun shining mercilessly on his neck and the top of his head. The peon had been all day in the mine, surrounded by his fellows as their pickaxes impacted again and again on the thick rock, while others scurried around like starved dogs, collecting from the debris of broken stone that littered the mine floors the glittering deposits of silver ore and collecting them into sacks. Outside, in the valley, others had pounded away at trees and stacks of wood, harvesting all the lumber that could be gathered for the glory and wealth of the Horde.

Deglash did not mind the labor, nor the long hours, nor the heat of sun nor the dark of the mine. The world was as it was, he had long ago decided, and as it had come to be that he had been gifted with the muscles and ethic to work all day mining and hauling silver in this valley, such was how he would spend his days. The world would continue to turn amicably, without any undue complaints from him, and each night there would be ale and meat and a reasonably soft cot waiting for him in the worker lodge. Such was the arrangement he had long known, and he found it enough to his liking.

So it was that at the end of one long afternoon, like so many long afternoons before, he crossed the narrow valley with his sack full of silver slung over his shoulder and the tired sun breathing its last rays of warmth onto his shaved head.

His sweat fell in droplets that hissed on the hot, dusty ground in rhythm with his footsteps – _tss-tss, tss-tss_. He passed the old sign that had once said Silver Valley in Orcish – the one that had fallen in that freak lightning storm last summer and never been fixed or replaced – and entered the work camp, nodding his head at the other peons who had already returned from their day's toil.

The camp was situated at the back of the valley, against a sheer rock wall that rose some twenty feet above the floor of the valley before leveling off into an uneven plateau. Along the base of this wall of stone, Deglash could see sacks full of silver, not unlike his own, placed by those miners that had returned before him. He approached the wall and deposited his sack with the others. In the morning, they would set about cleaning and storing the silver away in the treasury den – but for as long as the night would last, work was over.

Dinner was already being handed out in the form of thin boar steaks and tough hunks of bread. The boars, he knew, were raised, killed and cooked right here in the valley, by other peons. Peons provided food and water to their fellows. Peons built, fixed and replaced the tools they needed. Peons hunted the predators of the valley to keep the camp safe. The valley was as much a commune as a labor camp; its workers worked for their own benefit as well as for the profit of the Horde.

Deglash received his meal and a tankard of warm ale – one of the few products not made there in the valley, but imported from Orgrimmar or Thunder Bluff – and found a seat at the long table beside those who were already eating. He tore into his bread and meat, sipped his ale, and felt his muscles begin to relax.

The hot sun fell below the tops of the highest of the western hills, and at last cool shade descended upon the camp. The rasps and grunts of the workers had blossomed into talking, laughing and more. At the far end of the table, games of chance were suddenly in full swing. It always surprised him, the quickness of this transformation – the sudden disappearance of the sun at the end of the afternoon, a rush of cooler air, and all at once the solemn, tired atmosphere at the completion of a good day's work shifted to one of merriment, entertainment and relaxation.

A toothy smile cracked his worn face, and he raised his tankard to his lips. The taste seemed magnified tenfold; it was wonderful. Setting the drink down on the table, he placed his arms behind his head, leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. He was the very image of comfort.

"Alright, you maggots! Listen up!"

The games, the laughter, the idle conversations were silenced as suddenly as they had erupted. Deglash's eyes flew open.

At the head of the camp stood a mountain of an orc – tall, broad of shoulder, and with all the forgiveness of a wall of stone. The Foreman held his favorite club in his right hand, a weapon which matched him in more than one characteristic. He opened his mouth and bellowed once more at the crowd of revelers.

"Which one of you dogs is Deglash?"

The peon could feel every eye in the camp turn slowly towards him, and he saw more than a few arms and fingers extended in his direction. Seeing the Foreman's gaze settle on him as well, Deglash took a breath and stood.

"I am Deglash, master," he said.

"You come with me, then," growled the Foreman.

As he crossed the common behind the titanic orc, he could hear the evening's festivities slowly building up again behind him. The pair made their way in silence towards a small tent on the edge of the camp. It was little more than a broad tarp, truly, stretched across the tops of poles in the ground and affixed to the rock wall behind; yet it served well enough as the Foreman's quarters when he was not belting orders at the peons under his charge.

Deglash did not think he was frightened of the Foreman – not really. It was more an understanding of his status, combined with the imperious tone the orc had used, as he so often did. They were in agreement that the Foreman gave the orders and the peon would follow, and so actual fear of the one on the part of the other was never necessary. The Foreman bellowed his commands, and Deglash, cowed, would comply.

They entered the tent, and the Foreman immediately sat on the narrow cot which rested along one wall of the cloth structure. The peon elected to stand.

"Deglash," the Foreman growled, gripping a piece of parchment, "do you have any idea what today is?"

The worker was forced to admit he did not. "Early summer?" he guessed.

"It was a little over three years ago that Orgrimmar's construction was completed. You were assigned to help with its building, is that correct?"

"Yes, master."

"And when it was finished, you were reassigned here to Silver Valley, where you've been since, yes?"

"That's right, master." So many questions!

"Do you recall, Deglash, how long it took to build Orgrimmar?"

Again he was forced to confess his ignorance, which he did with a small shrug.

"That project took just under two years. Two years to build, plus three more since it was finished. So I ask you again – do you know what today is?"

"No, master."

The Foreman looked up at him a long time, saying nothing, as though examining a newly-cleaned chunk of silver in search of faults. Finally he spoke again.

"Today, Deglash, it has been five years you have worked for the Horde. Do you know what that means?"

There was another shrug from the peon, and the Foreman, obviously irritated, thrust the parchment into his hand. Deglash looked down at the paper, uncomprehending.

The Foreman sighed. "I suppose you don't read, either?" Deglash shook his head. The Foreman sighed and pressed his face close to the worker's.

"Alright, listen – and listen close, because this conversation has already wasted enough of my time tonight! What this says – what it means – is that you've worked all you need to. Five years, that's what the laws say is required of peons. You can thank War Chief Thrall for that provision; five years is all you're allowed to work. I can't make you haul silver another day."

Deglash stared back at him, silent.

"Do you understand? You're done. Tomorrow morning you can leave this camp and this valley and never come back if you like. How does that sound?"

"I…" The peon searched for words. "This is my home," he managed.

"Tough jerky," boomed the larger orc's voice. "I'm glad to hear you like the place, but I'm afraid you just can't stay. The law says you're not allowed to work anymore now that your time's up. And I can't imagine you'd like to hang around here if you're not working, mm?"

Deglash considered. He pictured the morning ritual, his fellows lined up out in the commons, solemnly cleaning silver before trekking off back towards the mine for another hard day's work – and all the while, he himself sitting at the long table, sipping ale, watching them labor and doing nothing.

"No, I wouldn't like that at all," he whispered.

"So we agree, then," said the Foreman, turning back to look at him again. "You can stay the night, but tomorrow you leave? Yes?"

"Yes," he replied sadly. "Tomorrow I will leave." He paused, doubt crossing his face. "Where will I go?"

"Orgrimmar, I s'pose," said the Foreman. "They'll be able to tell you there where to go if you want to find you family or your clan or whatnot. What clan are you, anyways?"

"Blackrock," he said.

"Hmm, Blackrock… not sure I've seen anyone from Blackrock in quite awhile; not that I ask every orc I see what clan he's from, mind you. Some of the folks in the less kindly-remembered clans – the Stormreavers, the Burning Blades, the Shadowmoons – they don't like to associate with the clans they came from. Can't blame them, m'self. Would you want to be known as part of the clan that helped Ner'zhul destroy Draenor? It looks bad."

Deglash nodded, though he didn't fully understand.

"Blackrock, though, that's a good honored clan. Older clan, too – older than both of the Human Wars, if my reckoning's right. I'm Bleeding Hollow, myself. Anyhow, you go on to Orgrimmar, and see the War Chief or one of his officers. They'll tell you how to go about finding where the other Blackrocks have settled here in Kalimdor, if that's what you want.

"You should stop in Ratchet or Razor Hill along the way, too, and see a grunt about collecting your wages. Just show 'em that paper –" here he gestured to the mysterious document in Deglash's hands "– and tell 'em you want your payment. They shouldn't give you any trouble."

"Then what?" The question seemed to surprise the Foreman; Deglash wasn't sure he'd ever seen the orc surprised before.

"Then what?" the Foreman repeated. "You're a free orc, and there's a big old world out there! You go do whatever the hell you want!"

Apparently fed up with the conversation, the Foreman drew open the flap of the tent and vanished into the evening, leaving the peon alone in the tent to wonder what had just happened to make the world stop turning.


	2. Ratchet

"Peon" by Forever Jake

Chapter Two – Ratchet

Squibber had been sitting for gods-knew-how-many hours on the stool, and he had long been certain that all sensation in either leg or in any part of his disproportionate buttocks had vanished. The goblin's ears were drooped lethargically towards the surface of the bar, and his eyes – the fraction of them that were open – had a glazed quality which bespoke little activity behind them.

Yet, as the curtain that marked the entrance to the dusty saloon swished open and closed again, the sound made nearly foreign by the vast expanse of time that had passed since last it had been heard, his little body have a slight shudder, the tips of his ears straightened visibly, and he blinked his eyes in comprehension, turning a few degrees to angle them towards the figure who had just entered the all-but-deserted inn.

The orc was clad in a set of thin-worn leather vestments, his crest and shoulders bare. He was broad of shoulder, wide of frame and, from the tired, trusting look on his oversized face, he was appropriately thick of skull. In short, he was Squibber's favorite kind of customer.

The stranger approached the bar and addressed its keeper in short, stunted orcish. The goblin licked his teeth, pushing through layers of mild intoxication to recall what he knew of the language.

"Where is the Captain?" he growled. The barkeep, a wiry troll, lazily raised his arm to indicated the rear of the inn. The orc nodded briefly and turned back towards the entrance.

"Watch my drink," Squibber whispered, pushing his tankard back on the bar. The keeper smiled and winked at him.

The orc, if he noticed the keen-eyed little goblin trailing behind him, made no acknowledgement, but continued out through the curtained doorway and around the curved outer wall of the structure. The smaller humanoid fell back slightly as a tall wagon came into view, attended by a taller, hairless orc in traditional military attire.

This was a grunt in the classic sense; the larger-than-life, much-heralded foot-soldier of the great Horde, deliciously slow of mind and tongue (even for an orc, Squibber chuckled to himself) but viciously quick and adept with an axe. The goblin was sure to stand far clear of the glinting weapon, which hung within ready reach from the warrior's belt.

The newcomer, however, was either unafraid of the guard or unaware of the threat he posed to anyone perceived as an enemy, and approached the wagon casually.

"What's your business, peon," the grunt demanded.

"I'm here to get my payment," came the reply.

_Payment_. The goblin licked his teeth again.

The grunt wiped a smattering of sweat from his brow and eyed the peon indifferently.

"Got your documents?"

The newcomer fished in his vests for a piece of crumpled parchment, and upon finding it offered the article to the warrior, who merely glanced at it before handing it back.

Now it was the grunt's turn to search his pockets, at last procuring a battered brass key. Turning, he fitted this into a slot on the side of the wagon and pulled. A panel of wood came loose, and Squibber caught an eyeful of the compartment within.

It was filled with gold, silver and copper coins… dizzying quantities of them. He licked his teeth a third time.

"Alright, here you go… five years' wages come to about seventy silver." The grunt measured the amount loosely in three large handfuls of coin. Each of these he passed on to the peon, who seemed to have little idea what to do with the stuff and dumped it all into a small leather pack.

The goblin wondered if he was dreaming.

"Now get a move on!" barked the grunt, apparently eager to get back to his standing in place.

"Oh, just one more thing," the peon said, cringing as he witnessed the warrior's ire. "Er… which way is Orgrimmar?"

The grunt sighed and pointed to his right. "Follow the coast back towards Durotar till you hit the river, and then follow that. Orgrimmar's a half a day's walk."

The peon thanked him, and began immediately to march with purpose in the direction the grunt had singled out. Squibber hobbled quickly after him.

"Hey, you there!" he called. The orc stopped, turned, and looked around in all directions. The diminutive goblin waved his arms, and the peon stepped backward in surprise – perhaps he'd never seen something so short _speak_ before.

Undaunted, the goblin continued. "Did I hear you say you was going to Orgrimmar?" The orc nodded. "I thought so. I've got a cousin in Orgrimmar, you know. He works on the tower where the zeppelins take people to and from the Undercity. If it's not too much trouble, I'd appreciate it if you went to visit the old troublemaker and told him I said hello… 's there a problem, chief?" The peon was looking at him with confusion.

"What is zeppelin?" the larger humanoid asked in broken Common. And then, after the briefest of pauses: "What is Undercity?"

"Uh…" _Was he seriously that sheltered?_ The goblin stopped and looked at the tall creature for a moment, gauging his still-vacant expression, threadbare clothing and grizzled features. They all answered his unspoken question with a resounding _yes_.

"Look, chief, don't worry about any of that. Are you, uh… taking all _that_ with you?" As he said the word _that_, he gestured towards the peon's makeshift coinpurse.

"This?" The orc looked down at the parcel. "Why should not to?" The peon obviously had as much trouble with common as did the goblin with Orcish, of not moreso… nevertheless, Squibber stuck to his guns.

"Just not terribly safe, is all. I mean, I wouldn't bring more than a few coppers with me into a big city like Orgrimmar. Likely to get it stolen, or beaten out of ya. Orgrimmar's nice, but it's got more than it's share of thugs and cutpurses."

"What is… cutpurses?" Squibber's mind did flips trying to understand the orc's speech.

"Uh… rustlers." He looked for a glimmer of comprehension in the peon's face; there was none. "Punks?" Nothing.

"Thieves?" At last, a word he recognized! The orc's reaction was instantaneous, and decidedly negative. He clutched his satchel tightly, and broke into a long string of complex Orcish that Squibber could not hope to follow; something about humans and missing pigs.

"You, uh… sure you want to bring all that with you, around all those…" He swallowed before repeating the word. "…thieves?"

There was a momentary pause; the orc looked back and forth between the goblin and the bag of coins several times, as though considering. Finally he spoke: "What instead I do?"

Though he did his best to conceal it, the goblin breathed a sigh of relief – the poor fool was buying it.

"Well, uh, what I usually, do, chief, when I go into the city is I take my stash…" He reached up to grab the bulging pack, which the orc gave up with only momentary hesitation. "…And I take out a few coppers, whatever I think I might need." Slowly, he pulled open the flap on the top of the satchel, once more nearly fainting at the sight of all those coins. He reached in and scooped out a small handful of copper, depositing it in the confused orc's hand.

"Then, I put the rest of it all together…" He carefully refolded the flaps of the pack, making sure none of the silver and copper still inside toppled out.

"…And I bury it." This last bit he whispered, as though thieves, those most dreaded of demons, might appear at any moment to snatch up the money. Taking the orc by the hand, Squibber guided him a few feet from where they had been standing, to a narrow patch of ground hidden from common view behind a smattering of stunted cactus.

From a pocket on his thigh, the goblin suddenly produced a tiny, silver spade, and plunged it into the soft dirt. Within moments, he had created a whole of sufficient dimension to house the parcel, and he placed the leather bag gingerly within it.

"You cover it up, like this…" He demonstrated, pushing and smoothing the pile of accumulated dirt with his bare foot so that it perfectly covered and concealed the cache of coins. "… and then it'll be here when you get back from the city. That way, you don't have to worry about getting your pocket picked, and your fortune remains safe."

As if to drive home his point, he winked at the still-bewildered-looking orc. Then he once more licked his teeth.

Slowly, painfully slowly, the peon seemed to grasp the concept he'd suggested. He smiled (for the first time since he'd walked into the saloon, the goblin thought), and extended his off-hand – the one that wasn't carrying a minimal amount of copper – in approval. Squibber grabbed the hand and shook politely; _it was probably going to take weeks to scrub off all the dirt_.

"I am much thankfully," the peon managed.

"Oh, no need to thank me," the goblin said, removing his hand and bowing. "Just tell my cousin in the zeppelin tower that old Squibber says hello."

"You… Squibber?" Squibber nodded. "Me Deglash," the orc said, pointing to himself. "Pleased me am to make your friendship."

_Aw!_ thought the goblin. _He thinks I'm his friend…_ a lesser schemer would have cried, then, or at least dug up the dough on the spot and returned it, begging forgiveness. But Squibber had been at this long enough to leave such temptations long behind, and he managed what he supposed was a flattered grin.

"Believe me, _friend_," he said, "the pleasure's been all mine."

He watched happily as Deglash turned and walked away down towards the coastline, still clutching those few copper coins he'd been left in his sweaty palm. When his figure had vanished from view, Squibber once more procured his trusty shovel from its place on his thigh, and set to work uncovering the afternoon's earnings.


End file.
